Notes
by pgrabia
Summary: When Wilson goes missing, House must use his cunning and skill to bring him back home.  H/W preslash/slash. WARNING: Subject involves Racism and all that involves.  Suicide ideation.  Spoilers up to episode 8x8. Reader discretion advised.
1. Chapter 1

****Title: Notes  
>Author: <strong>pgrabia  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>**House M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me. I just like to play with them sometimes.  
><strong><strong>CharactersPairings:** **House, Wilson, House's team, Mendelsohn, a few OC's/ House/Wilson preslash becoming slash.  
><strong><strong>Genre(s):<strong> **Sick!Wilson, Drama, Angst, Romance.  
><strong><strong>Rating:<strong> **NC-17/ M  
><strong><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** **Spoilers up to the most current episode in Season 8. Contains strong language, violence, mention of suicide ideation/attempt, explicit sexuality, racism.  
><strong><strong>Author's Note: <strong>**While writing this I was very reticent of using certain language but since racism and bigotry is an important factor in this fic, and trying to be realistic, there are some slurs used that are undoubtedly offensive. I do not share the beliefs of those characters in this fic that use such language. I do not consider myself a bigot and I work very hard at not holding prejudice toward anyone. I hate bigotry and do not use any of the slurs used in this fic myself in my real life or tolerate others using them around me. I apologize in advance if their use in this fic offends anyone.

Also: This has been proofread once and not betaed because I ran out of time. The mods at Sick!Wilsonfest have been gracious to me and have allowed me to post this a little late and I don't want to abuse that privilege, so I acknowledge that there will be errors throughout this and you have my apologies.

Written for** **Sick!Wilsonfest round 7.** Prompt: **Wilson is held hostage until House diagnoses someone.

**Notes**

**Chapter One**

House walked through the clinic doors with a dark thundercloud looming over his head and a facial expression that was just as foreboding and dark. He hated working clinic at the best of times, but when he was legitimately ill it took on a loathing a magnitude of a hundred more.

He had woke that morning with a splitting headache, stuffed-up nose and sore throat. Foreman had refused to give him a sick day despite the fact that he was legitimately sick this time. An epidemic of the Norwalk virus had hit Princeton and area leaving the hospital understaffed and the ER and clinic overrun with sick, dehydrated, whiny, pukey, poopy people. The last thing House needed was to add viral-based gastroenteritis to the nasty cold he had, but he knew that he had little bargaining power now that Foreman was Dean of Medicine and held House's nuts hostage so long as he was still technically in the custody of the New Jersey Department of Corrections.

He went straight to Foreman's office and entered without knocking. His boss looked up his desk where he was signing paperwork and frowned at the unannounced intrusion. When he saw that it was House, he rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. The reaction was so similar to the one House used to receive from Cuddy that he couldn't help but scowl. Anything that reminded him of Cuddy these days brought one to his face.

"I'm here under protest," House told him, sounding more like, 'I'b here unduh prodest.'

"Look, I'm sorry I had to call you in while you're sick," Foreman said, spreading his hands out in front of him. "I've got several doctors out with this stomach flu and we're overrun by—"

"—idiots who don't know how to wash their hands or take a drink of water once in a while," House finished for him, tapping the carpeted floor with his cane. "Sending Wilson for me was a nice touch. He lectured me the entire way here about my not getting enough sleep and eating poorly, lowering my immune system as if I hadn't gone to medical school or anything. I'll work in the clinic today if each hour I do equals five normal hours of duty when I'm not sick."

Foreman shook his head. "Two."

"I'm going back to bed," House announced, turning to leave.

"You're lucky I don't count it as zero hours toward what you owe," Foreman told him as he limped to the door. "I'm not Cuddy, House. I won't let you manipulate me like you did her. I'm offering two, take it or leave it but be warned: If you leave it, I'll just add the hours you should be doing here today to what you owe me, and double it."

House glard at his former fellow. "Add a few pounds and a few intelligence points and you'd pass for Vogler in a heartbeat." He left before Foreman could respond to that. Hefting his backpack a little higher on his shoulder, House then headed to his office to drop his coat and bag off before returning with great reluctance to the clinic. When he reached his office he could see that the conference room that connected with it was empty. Without a doubt his team had been roped into helping out in the ER and clinic since they didn't currently have a case.

He unlocked his door and walked inside, hanging up his coat and muffler and setting his backpack down on the sofa. He had a good mind just to cross the balcony that he shared with Wilson, enter his best friend's office, curl up on his better cushioned sofa and sleep. He truly did feel absolutely wretched. Foreman didn't seem to care if House passed his cold on to anyone else. The administrator obviously had lost much of his intelligence when his head swelled three sizes larger upon becoming Dean of Medicine. If Wilson had heard his thoughts he would have likely reminded House that if not for Foreman, he would still be locked up in prison for another few months yet.

House hated that fact because it was true—he owed Foreman a great deal and he didn't like owing anybody anything—or, rather, anybody but Wilson.

Thinking about the oncologist spurred House to cross the balcony. It was cold outside, but fortunately it was a short distance between their offices. House crossed over the half-wall barrier separating their sides of the balcony but it was a little more difficult for him than usual, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain that shot through his ruined right thigh as he did it. With the damp cold of New Jersey winters also came arthritic pain in the joints of his overtaxed right arm and shoulder. He wished he could just pop another Vicodin or two to ease this nearly constant ache but Foreman was the one prescribing his meds these days (and everyone on his team as well as Wilson had refused to prescribe him any more on the sly); he was keeping a tight rein on how much House got. That, his electronic leash around his ankle, and the random blood and urine screens, which were surprisingly random, kept him from being able to obtain and take more than Foreman allotted.

He felt like a fucking marionette and it had to be Foreman of all people who had control over his strings.

With a quick look inside the glass balcony door, House could see that Wilson's office was empty. Slightly disappointed, House nevertheless opened the unlocked door and stepped in from the December cold, shivering as he shut the door behind him.

Wilson wasn't in the office presently, but it appeared that he had been just moments before. The lights were still on; his Macbook was open, the Apple logo lit on the back of the monitor, and a steaming take-out cup from the coffee shop across the street rested on the desk a foot away from it. Wilson's car coat and muffler hung on the hat tree and his lab coat was missing.

House smiled slightly to himself. His friend would be back soon and as much as House hated to admit it, he loved having Wilson around when he was sick. Sure, the constant nurturing mixed with the mini-lectures about House's unhealthy lifestyle could get a little annoying, but it was a hell of a lot better than suffering alone.

The sofa looked inviting, but an open Macbook was also enticing, and since House's curiosity always outweighed his personal well-being, he decided to investigate what all Wilson had added to his computer since House had last broken into it to snoop around. He knew he had to be quick, though, since he had no idea when Wilson might return.

House didn't have to do any hunting to find something interesting. As soon as he touched the built-in mouse pad the screen switched from the screensaver to a Word document Wilson had obviously been working on before being called away from his desk. Ignoring the protests from his thigh, He leaned over the desk to get a closer look at the screen; without his reading glasses he couldn't see it otherwise.

His heart jumped to his throat and began to beat wildly when he read the note Wilson had been writing. House's blood turned cold.

_House,_

_I saved the last note I wrote for you. Before you tear this into a thousand pieces or toss into the fireplace, please read all of it. It's the last you're going to hear from me so you owe me at least that._

_I realize you're more than pissed at me, but that's okay, I understand. I need you to understand why I did this. More than anyone else, I need you to know why._

_The past three and a half years have slowly shown me that I really have screwed up not only my life but yours as well. Because I've been too much of a fucking coward to face the truth and embrace it, I've lost the only thing that has ever meant anything to me, that has ever given my life any kind of purpose and happiness—__**you**__. I know that I'll never be able to regain what I've lost or make amends, and that's why I really don't want to face another holiday and another year the way things are now._

_After Amber died I had a lot of time to think about how I could have lost you at the same time I lost her and it scared the shit out of me—well, you already know that. What you don't know is that I realized I was in love with you. You were right, of course. Amber was a proxy for you, and even though I grew to love her in her own right, it didn't start off that way. Nor did I love her as much as I loved you. I don't know why I asked you to risk your life for hers; I guess part of me figured that you would bounce back from the DBS like you do with everything else and that you were invincible, so I wouldn't lose you like I was in danger of losing her. I've always kind of seen you as an angry, misunderstood superhero—the Black Knight of the medical profession; for a while, I forgot you were only human like the rest of us._

_Anyway, that's in the past, but my love for you isn't. Or rather, wasn't. If there is, by fluke, an afterlife, I'm pretty certain I'll continue to love you there as well._

_I've had so many chances to tell you how I feel, but to my deepest regret I never have. I couldn't find the courage to do so. Unlike you, I've been a coward most of my life. I spent most of it running away from the fact that I could get it up for a woman, but only in the desperation of hiding the fact that I was gay. After all, when you close your eyes and concentrate enough, a hole is a hole, you know? Yup; I'm gay. I wonder if you ever realized just how close you were to the truth all these years whenever you joked about it. I can't tell you anxious I was when Nora insisted that you and I were lovers. _

_I was terrified that if you discovered the truth about me—well, you're straight and I didn't want to disgust you and alienate you with the truth about me. I couldn't risk losing your friendship. Little did I know that by putting a little distance between us by asking you to move out of the loft I was hammering another nail in coffin of our friendship—and driving you straight into that disastrous relationship with Cuddy. I sure fucked up that one, didn't I?_

_I would have killed myself before this, but Foreman caught me on the roof with one leg over the perimeter wall and stopped me; he locked me in the psych ward until I promised not to try such a 'stupid thing' again. He just didn't _understand_how alone I was, how not even my job was enough to keep me going without you or to help me forget that you wouldn't have ended up in prison if not for me. _

_Without even the friendship and closeness we once had…well, _that's why_. My life is worthless without what we had had. I'm sorry, Greg. I love you. If possible, I always will. Trust Foreman—he cares about you and he'll be there for you, he's just as proud as you are and would never come out and admit it but it's true._

_My will is in the bottom right drawer in my desk at the loft. It's in the locked box. The key will be hand-couriered to you the day after my death. I know you don't care, but all the same, I left everything to you, including the loft. After all, I really bought the damned place for you in the first place._

_Yours always,_

_James._

House had the sudden urge to pick up the Macbook and slam it against the nearest wall, but at the last second he stopped himself. Wilson had no intention of him seeing this until it was too late to stop him from committing suicide. The mere thought of it made House want to vomit violently. He had to do something to prevent Wilson from doing it.

_Wilson was in love with him_. It seemed too good—and too painful—to be true. Angrily, House beat himself up for not only being so pathetically blind to truth, but also for being just as cowardly in facing and admitting his own love for Wilson. How many years had they thrown away because they were complete and utter idiots? Now Wilson was ready to throw _himself _away and there was no chance in hell that House was going to let him to do it.

But where _was_ Wilson? Several minutes had passed now without his return; his gingerbread latte was no longer steaming and it had taken House a while to read and digest the suicide note without his reading glasses. The fact that Wilson's coat was here and lights were on indicated that he had intended to return shortly…so why hadn't he?

Images that House didn't want to imagine flashed before his eyes and he tried to push them, along with his panic, aside so he could think rationally. Should he go looking for Wilson now, or lie down on the sofa like he had planned and wait for him? Confronting him about the note head on would not only anger Wilson because of the intrusion into the private information on his computer (which by now he should realize wouldn't remain private if House was around and it was left open like it was), but would force his defenses up which would correspondingly cause Wilson to dig in his heels, shut down, and admit to nothing. House's stubbornness in opening up was nothing compared to Wilson's.

House shook his head; they were quite the pair.

A thought occurred to him. Wilson knew House about as well or better than House knew Wilson. Therefore, the oncologist had to have known that he was taking a risk leaving his laptop and the file open like he had, even if he had only intended to be gone for a few minutes. What if he had wanted someone, namely House, to find this note when he did; what if he had left without the intent of ever coming back? Was he overreacting thinking that way?

One thing was certain—he didn't want to risk it and do nothing. House picked up Wilson's phone and dialed Foreman's extension then while he waited for him to pick up, House printed off a copy of the note from Wilson's computer.

"Hello, Office of Dr. Eric Foreman, Dean of Medicine," answered Foreman's P.A. mechanically. "How may I help you?"

"It's House," House said tersely, "get Foreman on the phone."

"I'm sorry, Dr. House," the P.A. said with forced politeness, "but the Dean is in a meeting right now and can't be disturbed. May I take a message?"

Making a frustrated noise that sounded uncannily like a growl, House answered, "Yeah. Tell him that if he doesn't get himself on the phone this instant he could find himself with one dead doctor and another one on the lamb!"

The P.A. hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Please hold."

House rolled his eyes at the delay and groaned at the muzak that filled his ear coming from the phone receiver. This was fucking ridiculous! He didn't have time to spare waiting on hold! He sneezed several times in a row which only made him angrier.

The phone was picked up again relatively quickly, however. "House, you better be calling me from the clinic concerning a crisis, or—"

"Wilson's going to kill himself," House said curtly, cutting Foreman off. "He left me a suicide note and he's not in his office where he's supposed to be right now."

"You have to be misunderstanding things."

"Oh yeah? Well I've got a print-out in my hand that says otherwise," House spat and then quoted a couple of lines from the note; his trembling made it difficult to read. "'…I saved the last note I wrote for you…It's the last you're going to hear from me so you owe me at least that.' Yadda-yadda, and '…My will is in the bottom right drawer in my desk at the loft…I know you don't care, but all the same, I left everything to you, including the loft…' and so on. Convinced, or is it going to take his body showing up at the _morgue_ to prove it to you?"

House heard what might have been a whispered curse word before Foreman responded, "It could be another prank."

"Or he could be on the roof right now about to jump!" House nearly yelled. "Either way, do you really want to risk it? I won't! Lockdown the hospital and get security out looking for him and tell them to stay out of my way because I'll be damned if I'm going to be locked in Wilson's office waiting for word about his well-being from someone else. He may have left the hospital or might still be here making his way out as I waste time arguing with you. You wanted the big title and the office-now do the job that comes with it!"

Slamming the receiver down hard enough to literally crack the casing, House wasted no time leaving Wilson's office in search of him. If that meant having to leave the hospital without the permission of the DOC and getting himself thrown back behind bars, then so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

****Title: Notes  
>Author: <strong>pgrabia  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>**House M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me. I just like to play with them sometimes.  
><strong><strong>CharactersPairings:** **House, Wilson, House's team, Mendelsohn, a few OC's/ House/Wilson preslash becoming slash.  
><strong><strong>Genre(s):<strong> **Sick!Wilson, Drama, Angst, Romance.  
><strong><strong>Rating:<strong> **NC-17/ M  
><strong><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** **Spoilers up to the most current episode in Season 8. Contains strong language, violence, mention of suicide ideation/attempt, explicit sexuality, racism.  
><strong><strong>Author's Note: <strong>**While writing this I was very reticent of using certain language but since racism and bigotry is an important factor in this fic, and trying to be realistic, there are some slurs used that are undoubtedly offensive. I do not share the beliefs of those characters in this fic that use such language. I do not consider myself a bigot and I work very hard at not holding prejudice toward anyone. I hate bigotry and do not use any of the slurs used in this fic myself in my real life or tolerate others using them around me. I apologize in advance if their use in this fic offends anyone.

Also: This has been proofread once and not betaed because I ran out of time. The mods at Sick!Wilsonfest have been gracious to me and have allowed me to post this a little late and I don't want to abuse that privilege, so I acknowledge that there will be errors throughout this and you have my apologies.

Written for** **Sick!Wilsonfest round 7.** Prompt: **Wilson is held hostage until House diagnoses someone.

**Notes**

**Chapter Two**

As the pre-recorded, ubiquitous female voice proclaimed over the PA system that the hospital was under lockdown and an alarm bell chimed every-so-often to emphasize the fact, security guards ushered the public and staff alike into authorized zones and locked the doors to keep them inside and anyone unwanted out.

The system was set up for both internal and external assaults, outbreaks, and other sundry emergencies where it was important to keep people from moving about or in and out of the building willy-nilly. With the hospital busy with nauseated, vomiting and diarrhea-inflicted people as well as the other ill and injured, the lockdown couldn't have come at a worse time. The ER was closed to incoming emergencies; ambulances were diverted to other hospitals in the area instead. Deliveries and shipments were kept from coming and going. Visitors to the hospital were forced to remain there until the emergency was over. Foreman was standing in the lobby talking with his security chief and a couple of Princeton cops when House stepped off of the elevator and limped in his direction.

"He's not on the roof," House announced, interrupting their conversation. He glanced uneasily sideways at the two police sergeants; he'd grown to hate anyone in uniform, a learned response one tended to develop after being in prison any length of time. He knew he currently wasn't doing anything wrong, but he still didn't trust cops as far as he could throw them. "He's not in Oncology or Pediatrics with one of his dying bald kids."

"Who is this man?" one of the cops asked, frowning at Foreman.

"Dr. House is our chief of diagnostics—" Foreman began but he was interrupted by the scoffing snort of the same cop.

"This is the con who played demolition derby with his ex's home, isn't he? I would have thought you'd still be behind bars for trying to off her and her guests!"

House wanted to wrap his long-fingered hands around that asshole's neck to see how easy it was for him to mouth off while he was being strangled.

"I'm surprised you're capable of thinking with that fat head of yours," House growled.

"House, don't make the situation any worse," Foreman told him sharply before the cop could formulate a comeback. "For Wilson's sake we need to work together. I've got security combing the hospital and reviewing security video logs from cameras at every point of entry or egress in the hospital. If he left the hospital before the lockdown we'll find out soon. If he didn't, we'll find him."

"Preferably before he offs himself," House shot back, his anger fueled by his barely-contained panic. "His loft needs to be checked—he's not answering his cell phone, home phone or pages. Also, my apartment, his exes' places and his favorite haunts need to be checked out." He pulled a short list he'd scribbled down and handed it to the cop that hadn't acted like a dickhead toward him.

"We've got officers already on it, but this list will help," Cop number Two told him with a nod of acknowledgement.

"Please let me know as soon as you do," Foreman told the police and security chief before they went on their way. Cop One gave House a taunting glare first, causing him to bristle but he wisely kept his mouth shut. House knew he couldn't help Wilson if he was in prison. Serendipitously, however, he had to sneeze at that moment and directed it at Cop One without even trying to cover up.

"Oops," he muttered banefully.

"That was disgusting," Foreman told him, wearing the appropriate expression on his face. Luegers and the cops walked away, the cops heading for the elevator and the security chief to his office.

"Sorry," House quipped, not sounding the least bit like he was, "I have a cold, you know. Shouldn't even be at work." He lowered his voice to a dangerous growl even though they were the only people occupying the lobby at the present. "Why the hell didn't you tell me that Wilson tried to kill himself while I was in prison?"

"It wasn't my place to tell you," Foreman answered directly, beginning to stride quickly toward the Security Office. House limped alongside him, managing to keep up despite the shooting pain in his leg with every step. "Wilson deserves to have his privacy protected, too. I decided that if he wanted you to know he'd tell you himself."

"Well that worked out well, didn't it?" House told him cynically. "Had I known, I would have been on the lookout for indicators that he was slipping back into that kind of depression. We've both been busy with work and trying to fix our friendship—"

"Yes," Foreman interjected, snorting, "_fixing_ things between you. There wouldn't have been anything to _fix_ if you hadn't had your head up your ass and did something that wound you up in prison. You didn't give a damn what your temper tantrum would do to him or any of the rest of us; you just decided to throw a colossal fit and get your revenge on Cuddy for pursuing what she wanted and needed out of life. You not only terrorized her into leaving but you nearly destroyed your best friend. You're lucky he still wants _any_thing to do with you after that."

They had reached the door to the security office and stood outside of it to finish their conversation. House looked down at Foreman with fury, but most of it was actually directed inward. Foreman was right, House knew; he _had_ fucked up royally and nearly destroyed innocent lives in the wake of his drug and alcohol fueled act of jealousy. Wilson felt guilty, blaming himself for the destruction of what he and House had once had; it was true that he wasn't completely innocent, but by far the greater blame rested on House. To realize that his spiral into madness and mayhem had caused Wilson such pain and suffering—well, it was a burden of guilt House deserved to wear around his neck perpetually; that didn't mean he liked hearing about it coming from Foreman.

"I don't need you to remind me of how badly I fucked up," House told him, unclenching his fists, his right one around the handle of his cane. His voice held less wrath now. "I have the reminder of that in this note." He held it up in front of Foreman's eyes. His hand trembled as he did so.

Foreman looked from the note to House's face and relented somewhat. "Look, the longer we attack each other, the less time we have to find Wilson. That's what's important right now."

A single nod in agreement was House's response. Foreman exhaled audibly before opening the door and leading the way inside. They passed the front desk where the receptionist was fielding calls from various parts of the hospital and police and ended up in the small A/V room in the back. Inside it looked like the cockpit of a 747 or the control board at a nuclear facility and lining one wall was at least eight monitors, each one split into four views from cameras throughout the hospital. Already in the room was the security chief, a weasel-like man named Luegers, and an experienced A/V technician operating the controls. House was impressed with the technology; he remembered how hard Cuddy had lobbied the Board for a revamping of the antiquated security system PPTH had possessed previously. Her selling point had been that with a better surveillance system they could keep closer watch on House and preempt his outrageous antics.

Pity, at least for the Board and Cuddy, that it hadn't worked, House mused. He felt a pang of something very unpleasant when he thought of Cuddy; there were more than one emotion involved and he couldn't be bothered to figure out what they all were.

"Anything, yet?" Foreman asked, his dark eyes looking over each monitor carefully.

"Not yet," Luegers answered. His voice was nasal enough to annoy House. "We have him coming in through the main lobby doors this morning accompanied by Dr. House. He went to the elevators after that and Dr. House turned into the clinic. Next we have him on the elevator and finally on the fourth floor leaving the elevator and heading to his office. We haven't got any further than that yet."

"Nice to know this is a priority to you guys," House murmured impatiently, rolling his eyes.

"We're doing everything we can as quickly as we can, House," Luegers shot back. There was no love lost between them. Luegers saw House only as a violent criminal set loose in his hospital that he now had to assign extra guards to keep track of; House saw Luegers as an ass-kissing sycophant who tried to make up for his lack of dick by bullying others and prancing around in his uniform with his tin-foil badge.

"And while you're taking your sweet time," House continued as if Luegers hadn't spoken, "Wilson could be taking his last breath…" He lost his voice at that point, a huge lump of fear choking him off.

"Look, House—!" Luegers began, eyes flashing, but Foreman silenced him with a pointed look before turning the same look on House.

"Enough," Foreman insisted. "House, we're doing everything we can. Try to rein it in."

The phone extension in the room rang and Luegers promptly picked it up.

"Yeah?" he said into the receiver. Foreman and House watched him carefully for any tells to indicate what he was hearing from the other end of the connection. "Who? Who is this?...Okay, okay."

The security chief held the receiver out to House. "I don't know how this call managed to get through but some guy wants to talk to you. Don't tie up the line."

House stared at the receiver for a moment and scowled before taking it from Luegers.

"This is House."

"Long time, no speak," an all too familiar voice said in response. The soft-spoken, sarcastic and threatening lilt to it was unmistakable, even over the phone, and turned House's stomach before a knot twisted it painfully.

"Mendelsohn." House said the name as if it was offal in his mouth. "How the hell did you get this number?"

Laughter met his question. "Not as bright as you think you are, huh, House? It's called a phone book. I'd give you twenty guesses as to why I'm calling but we three don't have time for that. As you know, they'll cut me off after ten minutes and I've already spent eight of them with my friend arranging this call so that it can't be traced back to me."

_We __**three**__,_ House echoed in his head. He knew the twenty guesses referred back to the twenty Vicodin Mendelsohn and his fellow skinheads had taxed him with when he was supposed to be released on parole the first time—but he couldn't have…oh God, he _hadn't_—had he?

"You son of a bitch," House growled into the phone, his hand squeezing the receiver tight enough to crush it. He looked up at Foreman in alarm and then punched the speakerphone button on the phone base and carefully hung up the receiver. "You have Wilson! If you harm a single hair on his head—!"

"Hello all of you who have just entered our conversation," Mendelsohn said cockily. Both Foreman and Luegers looked at House, wanting an explanation but he chose to ignore them. "Who knew your best bud is both a Jew _and_ a fag? You need to keep better company, House."

"Wilson had better be alright or I'll make certain that you'll beg for death when I'm done with you!" House told his nemesis. "If you have a bone to pick with me then deal with me and let Wilson go!"

"Don't you worry," Mendelsohn taunted. "Your Jew friend is alive and well—for now. If you want him to stay that way then you'll kindly pay the debt you still owe me, plus interest."

"Vicodin?" House demanded incredulously. "You still expect me to procure drugs for you?"

"Naw, I upped the value a bit," Mendelsohn told him. "I got someone who's sick—real sick—and he's been to eight doctors but none of them can figure out what's wrong with him. I heard you're a doc who specializes in that kinda thing. Make him better, and I'll let your friend go."

"You expect me to diagnose one of your Nazi filth in return for Wilson?"

"Hey, watch your mouth or I'll clean out Wilson's—with lye," Mendelsohn snapped. "He's already on his way over. I want him safely escorted to a room and for you to figure out what's wrong with him. No tricks, no cops, no bullshit or my other friends will make certain that Wilson dies slowly and painfully. You got me? I have eyes watching what's going on so I'll know if you try to double-cross me. For Wilson's sake, don't try. You'll get your guy back once _my_ guy is better. He'll be arriving through the ambulance bay—less visible to the public. I'll be in touch."

"Mendelsohn!" House shouted before the neo-Nazi could hang up. "I want to talk to Wilson and make certain that he's still alive before I do _anything_ to help the creep you want me to cure. I want to talk to him now!"

"I thought you might," Mendelsohn responded, sounding bored. "But first, a warning. You notify the police of what's happening and Wilson is dead. There will be no ambush waiting for my people when they arrive at the hospital. Trust me—we'll know if you squeal. Did you know that Jew-pigs squeal just as loud as farm pigs when they're stuck? Don't make me prove it to you. Thirty seconds after I hang up you'll get another call. You'll have one minute to talk with Wilson before I cut you off. Don't bother trying to trace the call—it won't do you any good. That's all for now."

There was the sound of two clicks followed by a dial tone. House hung up, cursing softly under his breath. This was very bad. He didn't trust Mendelsohn one iota, and the fact that the skinhead knew Wilson was a Jew only made matters worse. House tried not to think of all of the terrible, inhumane things that could happen to his best friend. He swallowed hard at a giant lump that had formed in his throat.

"Who was that?" Foreman demanded.

House sighed loudly. "The leader of a neo-Nazi prison gang. They controlled the prison block I was assigned to. When a short-timer comes up for parole or mandatory release he's expected to pay them an 'exit tax.' If he doesn't pay up then his first trip upon leaving prison is to the nearest emergency room, if he's lucky; the morgue if he's not. My tax was twenty Vicodin. I screwed them over, ended up in solitary and from there protective custody so they couldn't get to me. Now they appear to have kidnapped Wilson to make certain I pay my taxes. He has people on the outside who do his bidding and they must be the ones who have Wilson. Mendelsohn is deadly serious. If his people do have him, then Wilson's in very real dan—"

He was cut off by the sound of the telephone ringing again. Both Foreman and Luegers stared at the phone and then to House.

House hit speakerphone immediately upon answering. "Wilson?"

"House?" It was definitely Wilson's voice, but the sound of it made House's stomach churn. It was weak and hoarse and he sounded like he was either utterly exhausted or perhaps, god forbid, hurt.

"Wilson, are you alright? Where are you?"

"Let's just say," Wilson answered wryly, breathing unevenly. "they don't like my background. They…they slapped me around a little…to intimidate me but…but I'm okay. I have no idea where I am; I'm blindfolded except when I'm in a tiny windowless room they're keeping me in. Who are these people, House? What do they want?"

"It's a long story," House told him, "but basically they're neo-Nazi scum led by a guy named Mendelsohn I unfortunately knew in prison. He has a bone to pick with me, claims I owe him a debt that I can pay off by diagnosing his friend. I diagnose and cure his friend and he releases you. The guy is supposedly on his way to PPTH right now."

"What if you can't diagnose him?" Wilson asked, sounding frightened. "What if you can but there's no cure? What happens to me?"

House wanted to assure him that he was going to be alright, but he had no way of knowing that and didn't believe in offering false-hope. "I don't know, Wilson, but you need to focus on staying alive right now. I'll figure out what this guy has and we'll get you back."

"House…I need to tell you something," Wilson began and House knew right away where he was going and didn't want to go there, at least not under the current circumstances.

"You can tell me later," House told him, "once you're home safe and sound. Just do what they say and hold on."

"House, don't cooperate with a bunch of racists," Wilson insisted. "Don't get involved…just…I'm not worth it."

"Self-pity doesn't become you, Wilson!" House nearly shouted, his fear level rising. "You're worth whatever it takes and we _will_ get you home safely. Just don't give up. Wilson? Wilson, are you still there?"

There was the familiar click of the connection closing and then a dial tone. Foreman hung up on their end. Frustrated, House kicked a nearby wastebasket, punting it across the small room and nearly hitting Luegers with it.

"Goddamnit!" House shouted. Mendelsohn had warned him that he had people on the outside who would collect for him if House managed to get out of prison before paying his taxes. He'd hoped it was an empty threat, assumed it had been and had been wrong—now Wilson was the one suffering for his miscalculation. He felt a wave of self-loathing wash over him. Once again he was the cause of Wilson's pain and it sickened him. How could Wilson love him after all of the loss and pain he had caused him over the years?

"House, calm down," Foreman said firmly, turning to Luegers. "Do we have a recording of that?"

"Yes," Luegers responded, "I'll contact the police."

Before the security chief could grab the receiver House pushed the phone out of his reach with his cane and then got in his face. "Don't be stupid! You heard Mendelsohn as well as I did. You get the police involved any more than they already are and they'll kill Wilson."

"House," Foreman protested incredulously, "we _have_ to inform the police! A crime had been committed and what we're being forced to do is blackmail. We can't actually treat this individual and trust some skinhead gang to keep their word and let Wilson go when their man is healed."

It was true that there was no trusting Mendelsohn to keep his word about releasing Wilson, but he couldn't risk having Wilson end up dead because it was discovered that the police were called in. Obviously Mendelsohn had someone in the hospital that had staked out where Wilson's office was, his habits, and figured out, somehow, that Wilson was not only House's best friend but also Jewish and, if the note Wilson had been writing before he was abducted was true, gay as well. Not knowing who that person may be made it even more dangerous. House thought that most cops were bumbling idiots, and tried to avoid them as much as possible.

"Foreman, outside," House said, nodding to the door before glaring at Luegers. "Touch that phone while we're gone and you'll find my cane planted permanently up your ass."

"Ooh, I'm shaking," Luegers retorted. "Lift one finger in my direction and you'll be sleeping behind bars tonight, big shot."

"Shut up, both of you," Foreman told them, frustrated. "Luegers, gather the information the police will need but hold off on the call until I give you the go ahead."

Foreman led the way out of the room, expecting House to follow; the diagnostician did so, sticking his tongue out at Luegers along the way.

"Real mature, House," Luegers muttered, rolling his eyes in disgust.

Foreman led the way to the small lobby, ignoring the receptionist.

"If we call the police and Mendelsohn's people find out—" House began, ready to argue his case no matter what it took but Foreman cut him off.

"I know," he acknowledged with a nod and then lowered his voice so only House could hear him. "There is a way. We contact the police on an outside phone and tell them about the situation and the need for them to keep a very low profile then wait until the patient gets here and let whoever is bringing him leave without apprehension. It will be discreet, I promise you. Nobody but you and I will know that I've contacted them. I'll let them know exactly what the deal is. It's the best I can do, House. They have to be informed."

"Cops are too stupid to be discreet," House argued. "There's no way they'd agree to let the driver and crew to escape."

"They would if it meant being able to follow them to where they're keeping Wilson," Foreman returned.

As much as he hated to admit it House knew that Foreman was right. Chances were the neo-Nazi would have Wilson killed no matter what hoops he jumped through. The police had to be brought in; still, it had to be done very, very carefully…

"Fine," House whispered, nodding his head once and looking up at the ceiling briefly. "Wilson has to…" he started to say but couldn't finish without making himself more vulnerable around Foreman than he already was. Instead, House left the security office, heading to the emergency room to wait for the skinhead bastards to show up.

**~h/w~**

House sat on a treatment table in the ER, pretending to read a _Playboy_ he'd picked up off a table in the waiting room; it had been hidden under a stack of dog-eared, tattered issues of _Vogue, People, _and_ Good Housekeeping_. Well, at least somebody else in the hospital had both good taste and a sense of humor besides him. A smile touched his lips for a brief moment; it had probably been Wilson, during one of his more playful moods, who left the skin magazine with the rest. Of course, nobody but House would ever suspect it. Most would blame him, instead.

_Wilson_. How could he be expected to go on without him?

Foreman entered the treatment area and headed toward the ambulance bay with Luegers by his side. House looked at the rat-like security chief with disgust—how could he respect a man whose name sounded like a ball of snot, phlegm, and spit? House looked in the same direction as they were to see through the windows in the doors a panel van pull up into the ambulance bay. Security personnel and undercover cops dressed up like doctors and nurses stood at ready, just in case they needed to step into action. House and Foreman knew that they were there, but no one else had been informed, just as Foreman had promised.

House grabbed his cane and rose from the bench; he silently joined Foreman and Luegers. The driver of the van climbed out. House couldn't see him very well before he disappeared behind the vehicle but he was definitely wearing a baseball cap and a scarf to cover his face and brow. He reappeared as he rounded the van and stood at the back. He wore a black winter coat, blue jeans and tan colored steel-toed work boots—the kind that construction workers wore. Tucked into his back pocket was a small revolver; a snub-nosed .38 by the looks of it, House surmised.

The driver opened the rear door and then pulled what looked like a ramp out of the van's cargo area. There was some movement before a wheelchair appeared along with another masked man pushing it. This second guy wore a black bomber jacket, faded and frayed jeans, and the same kind of work boots as his partner; the bulge beneath the partially open jacket belied a pancake holster with some kind of hand gun inside of it.

The driver climbed back behind the wheel, ready to make a quick getaway as the second guy pushed the wheelchair toward the doors. It wasn't until the doors were unlocked and opened by one of the two security guards posted there that House got his first clear view of his new patient.

His jaw nearly dropped, and Foreman's actually did, briefly.

House stared at a young child in the wheelchair; tired, innocent eyes looked back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes**

**Chapter Three**

A flaxen-haired boy about five years old and wrapped up in a thick blanket stared up at House from the wheelchair with tired, pale green eyes. His skin was practically transparent; dark blue veins were visible crossing his brow, face and neck and those pale eyes were sunken, as were his cheeks. In fact, he looked seriously underweight for his age and bone structure. The hair on his head was short, fine and thin; combined with how fair it was the boy looked nearly bald.

_Mendelsohn's friend?_ House thought with a mental snort. From the similar traits House saw despite the emaciation, he knew this was Mendelsohn's blood; perhaps his son or, more likely, his grandson. He cursed; it was easy to hate him when House had thought he was an adult thug. He hated to admit it, but even House found it hard to loathe a child. He wasn't as tender with young children as Wilson was, and preferred not to have deal with them, but he did see them as somehow less guilty of the kind of evil and hypocrisy he found in adults.

Turning around to look at the van outside in the ambulance bay, the guy pushing the wheelchair gave a signal and the van sped away.

"Which one of you is House?" the skinhead demanded, turning back around; his hazel eyes moving from Foreman to Luegers and finally to House.

"I am," House replied coldly. He nodded to the other two. "These are my peeps."

"This is Bobby," Mask Guy told him, eyeing House with obvious distrust. "He's carrying a medical file under his blanket. As long as he's here, I'm here, got it? Everywhere he goes, I go. Nothing happens to Bobby—and I do mean nothing—without my approval. Try anything funny and I'll have no problem using this—after I get a hold of my pals who have your guy. He won't go painlessly, I assure you. Figure out what's wrong with Bobby and make him better, we'll release the Jew. Got it?"

"We do—" Foreman began but House interrupted him.

"You get this: I'm in charge of his diagnosis and treatment. You want a successful outcome, you would do well to remember that. If you threaten or harm anyone in this hospital, you won't need to worry about the cops dealing with you because I will. If anything happens to Wilson—if he gets so much as a hangnail because of you Neanderthals—I won't stop my revenge until every last one of you ends up six feet under."

House could see the thug smile behind his mask. "Mendelsohn said you had balls and to keep an eye on you. You can call me 'Paul' as long as Bobby and I are here."

"Aw, and I had my heart set on calling you _Prick_," House mockingly pouted.

Paul bristled and Foreman jumped in to keep the situation under control. "I'm Dr. Foreman, Dean of Medicine."

"But you can call him _Mein Führer_," House quipped sarcastically, earning a glare from everyone around him.

"If you and Bobby will follow me, we'll get Bobby admitted and start the process in motion," Foreman continued with a sigh. He gestured toward the ER exit.

Paul glared at Foreman with pure hatred. "I don't obey ni—""

"_O_h, no," House jumped in, raising his cane slightly but enough to get across his point of what he wanted to use it for. "You do _not_ want to go there, Prick—er, I mean, _Paul_. You try to breathe another racial slur again and you'll get a mouth full of cane and broken teeth before you can pull the trigger."

"Easy, House," Foreman told him, casting House a look that said 'be careful for Wilson's sake'. "We have to admit Bobby and I'm the one who will be facilitating that. You can choose not to follow me and have Bobby's illness rest on your head or you can choose to come with me and we get started right away with Bobby's diagnosis and treatment. It's up to you."

With great reluctance and resentment, Paul nodded once. Foreman and Luegers led the way and Paul followed them with the wheelchair; House was glad the security chief was smart enough to accompany them just in case the neo-Nazi decided to put a hurt on PPTH's African-American administrator.

"I hate Nazis," House muttered to himself in his best Indiana Jones impression, which wasn't all that great, and then headed for his office.

**~h/w~**

Once Bobby had been admitted and given a room in one of the older wings that was less populated with other patients and housed mostly clinical trials, disguised security was assigned to Bobby's unit and the lockdown was lifted—much to the relief of everybody trapped in the hospital for hours. The members of House's team were pulled from clinic and ER duty to focus solely on Bobby's diagnosis.

House was waiting for them in the DDx room when they arrived. He'd already scribbled an impressive list of symptoms he'd gleaned from the child's medical records onto the white board. A copy of the chart rested at each fellow's place around the conference table. Adams was the last team member to arrive. She had been out sick with the Norwalk virus but was on the mend; House had called her in because he wanted his entire team working on this case. They had to get the mystery solved as quickly as possible.

Nobody said anything about Foreman sitting at the end of the conference table, the space he had occupied when he was still a member of House's team, but eyes did flick to him from time to time. Everybody knew something was up; after all, the hospital didn't have lockdowns every day.

On the white board in black ink House had printed in his rapid scrawl:

**Six year old boy, Caucasian**

**pallor**

**muscle weakness and atrophy**

**short stature**

**anemia**

**nausea/vomiting**

**diarrhea**

**mild dehydration**

**stomach distension**

**cachexia ***

**generalized weakness**

**lethargy**

**lactose intolerance**

**no family history of cancer, IBS, or Celiac**

**SON OF NEO-NAZI WHO KIDNAPPED WILSON**

House watched the individual expressions of his team members as they read the list and then came to the last item on the list. Foreman didn't even read the list; he already seen the information and was busy watching the others, the same as House. Ken's and Barbie's—er, rather, Chase's and Adams's—eyebrows shot up before they looked with astonishment to House for an explanation. Taub's one eyebrow arched, but otherwise he looked just as disinterested and aloof as usual. Park's mouth dropped momentarily before she realized it had and closed it resolutely; her eyes were the size of saucers before she reined herself in and frowned with confusion, reading over the list several times.

"Wilson's been kidnapped?" Chase asked House first. "Well, that explains the lockdown. Are you sure he's not just in hiding to avoid another one of your pranks?"

"It's real," House told him grimly. "It's been confirmed."

"A neo-Nazi?" Adams questioned. "Are you sure?"

"Card carrying," House quipped, a frown playing with his brow and corners of his mouth. He was bouncing his cane off of the carpeted floor with nervous energy and impatience. "He kisses a picture of Hitler every morning. Also, Daddy is a violent con with as many connections outside the big house as in."

"Are we taking this case because someone is blackmailing you to take it using Wilson's safety to do it?" Park asked, curious. "Is the father someone you met in prison?"

"Malnutrition," Taub threw out, foregoing the why's of Wilson's kidnapping to focus on the symptoms on the board. House mentally put a checkmark next to the cosmetic surgeon's name. Obviously Taub realized that solving the case as quickly as possible was why House had placed the last item on the board in the first place. "What socioeconomic background does this kid have? Neo-Nazis can be found in any class. This kid live in poverty?"

Foreman handed a stack of files to Chase disseminate to the rest of the team, reproductions of the kid's original medical file with the name Robert 'Bobby' Mendelsohn; they were ridiculously thin.

"Middle class," House replied. "According to his file he's a 'picky eater'. Actually the file holds more horse shit than pertinent medical information." He turned and scribbled beside the original list the word 'malnutrition' and then 'picky eater?' It wasn't a brilliant conclusion, but at this point House wasn't going to nitpick so long as his team focused on the case. Questions about Wilson could be answered later.

"If he refuses to eat properly, malnutrition fits," Adams interjected. "Macronutrient deficiencies can explain all of those symptoms. Carbohydrate deficiency explains the lethargy, protein and fat deficiencies explain the rest. If it were that simple, however, you wouldn't have bothered presenting the case to us; you would have mocked the people wasting your time and started treatment already."

House said nothing to that, but the knowing look he gave Adams was confirmation that she was at least right about her last conclusion.

"Do we know what foods he eats as opposed to what he doesn't eat?" Park asked, he eyes skimming through the information in the file before her. "It could give us some indication as to whether the malnutrition is due to what he eats or if it's a problem with his body's ability to absorb the nutrients he does consume."

"Assuming he does get enough to eat, it could be any number of malabsorption syndromes," Taub added. "Something as bland as lactose intolerance could easily explain the vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal distension and pain. If he's throwing up most of what he eats and nutrients are not reaching the intestines to be absorbed or are being flushed through too quickly due to the diarrhea, it could explain his symptoms as well."

House scribbled down 'malabsorption syndromes', under which he specified lactose intolerance-gastroenteritis.

"Might as well throw Celiac up there while you're at it, since the two are often associated," Chase interjected.

Adams shook her head. "There's no history of Celiac, but a large percentage of children present LA which they eventually grow out of and after undernutrition causing malnutrition, LA is the simplest explanation."

"Simplest isn't _always_ the best," Taub commented, setting his file down onto the table and sitting back in his chair.

"Not always but usually," House told him, writing 'Celiac' down, regardless. "We don't eliminate anything out of hand. There doesn't have to be a family history; Celiac can be idiopathic. Okay—Adams, get a proper history, tell the kid's bodyguard you need to know as much as possible as honestly as possible if we're going to figure this out; I doubt we're going to have the opportunity to break into Bobby's house to look for clues ourselves. Use your feminine wiles if you have to. Chase and Park, standard lab draws: CBC and differential, Chem-20, T3 and T4 screens, serum iron, an RBP-EIA, B12 and serum folate. Taub, I want you in the lab getting the tests started and Chase and Park will assist you when they're done. Before you say what you're about to say, the answer is yes; I don't want you going near that Nazi goon if at all possible. Park isn't to go anywhere near him and the kid without Chase or myself with her. These guys are murderous, bigoted Neanderthals who shoot first and think twenty minutes later."

"Security is on full alert and I have an undercover team waiting outside Bobby's room at all times to be on the safe side," Foreman spoke up as the team got up from the table. "There are also undercover cops—that's need to know, you're not to tell anybody about them, not even known security personnel; Mendelsohn has a mole in the hospital keeping an eye on everything that's happening; he's threatened Wilson's life if the police are called in so it's essential that no one outside this room knows about their presence. The hospital is no longer on full lockdown but all non-emergent cases being brought to the ER are being diverted to Princeton General and the clinic is closed to any new patients until this crisis is over. A notice has been posted on all the entrances that there is a Norwalk outbreak in the hospital and for their safety it's best if they refrain from visiting patients unless it's urgent. We want to keep the number of nonessential personnel and members of the public in the hospital as low as possible.

"At the unit desk the clerk has panic badges for anyone entering Bobby's room. You will wear one every time you enter or otherwise have dealings with the bodyguard, Paul—no exceptions. "

"Now move your asses, do your jobs and try not to get shot," House told them. They filed out of the DDx room.

Adams paused at the door and turned back to House. "This has to do with that Vicodin you screwed Mendelsohn out of, doesn't it? The prison warden needs to know that Mendelsohn has had contact with his gang on the outside and with you."

"The police will deal with that," House told her. "We need to focus on a diagnosis. I want Wilson back safe and sound. Get going."

**~h/w~**

"We're working with Dr. Wilson's mobile service provider to use the GPS in his cellphone to try to locate him," Detective Lt. Greer told House and Foreman from across the cafeteria table at lunch. "If his phone is on it can be done, even if he isn't currently using his GPS."

"Mendelsohn may be a bigot and a murderer but he's not stupid," House responded, glaring at the cop disguised in scrubs. He'd conned Foreman into paying for his lunch—a Reuben and fries—but they sat untouched; he had no appetite and likely wouldn't until Wilson was safe again. "What if they thought to turn the phone off or dump it in some garbage can or along the side of the road?"

Greer sighed. "We're working on it, Dr. House. Trust me, we want to get your friend back safe and sound as much as you do."

"No, you don't," House muttered, looking down at his lunch. The smell of it was making him nauseous. "He's not _your _best friend." _And the man you're in love with,_ he thought.

It was silent at the table for a heartbeat before Foreman asked, "What happened with the attempt to follow the van that brought Bobby to the hospital?"

"We couldn't use a chopper to track it overhead without them catching on," Greer answered after swallowing a French fry. "Two units managed to track them as far as a shopping mall in Trenton. As soon as they walked into the mall we lost them. They abandoned the van and managed to alter their appearance enough to leave the mall without being stopped by mall security and our people."

"How do you spell incompetent?" House sniped. "C-O-P. How could you just lose them the moment they entered the mall?"

"We only had a about a minute of warning that they were headed for the mall," Greer explained, glaring back at House. She obviously didn't appreciate his attitude. "By the time mall security was notified to be on the look-out they had already entered the building. We were about twenty seconds behind them to avoid being detected. The GPS chip we managed to plant onto the van allowed us to keep some distance so they didn't realize they were being followed, even if they suspected it. In those twenty seconds they managed to find a bathroom or some other private spot to change their appearance and leave through another entrance before mall security and members of the force were in place. Right now we have people searching the mall for their clothes but it's likely they carried them out in a shopping bag undetected. Also, it's the holiday season and there are a lot of people going in and out of that mall right now. We're also reviewing mall security vieo recordings to see if we can't trace where they went and what they looked like when they left the mall but we're still in the process of doing that."

"Marvelous," House muttered, rolling his eyes and throwing himself backwards in his seat, "and while you're doing that those bastards could be torturing Wilson or…or he could already be critically injured or even…dead."

"You're awfully cocky for a man in your position, Dr. House," the lieutenant snapped snidely. "If you hadn't gotten yourself in trouble with the law and ended up in prison, you wouldn't have met Mendelsohn, pissed him off, and given him the idea to extract his revenge this way. If anybody here is to blame other than for Mendelsohn and his gang, it's you. So be careful about pointing fingers."

House glowered at her but he really couldn't respond; she was absolutely right. Mendelsohn likely never would have known that there was a doctor name Gregory House who had a best friend named James Wilson if he had never been sent to prison. He couldn't fight the guilt he felt by making any clever excuses or justifications, not this time, and trying to simply ignore it wasn't working all that well for him either. Foreman remained silent, resolutely looking away from House; he knew it was true, too.

That didn't mean House had to admit to it. "Just do your job and there won't be a reason to point fingers," House rose to his feet and grabbed his cane. "My job is obvious." He walked away, leaving his tray behind for someone else to dump.

He was frustrated that he was bound to the hospital and unable to get out there and actively join the hunt for the filth that kidnapped his best friend. He honestly couldn't care less if the _Hitlerjugend _lived or died except for the fact that the kid's fate directly affected Wilson's.

He went to his office, walked right through and out onto the balcony where he crossed the barrier between Wilson's side from his, and entered Wilson's office. He was still feeling like shit, only now he couldn't con his way out of working due to sickness even if he wanted to. House knew he wouldn't be able to get through this if he didn't try to rest while he could. He found the pillow and blanket Wilson kept in his office and lay down on the sofa, his mind going over the symptoms and signs they currently knew, which was very little. As he was drifting off, House's last conscious thought was a wish that Wilson was there to bounce ideas off of.

About two hours later he was awakened by the ringing of Wilson's desk phone. He was instantly awake, a doctor-slash-insomniac thing, and wondering who would be contacting Wilson in his office. The PPTH grapevine worked fast and almost everybody knew within an hour after the lockdown was lifted that Wilson was missing under mysterious circumstances and his personal assistant, Sandy, had been notified almost immediately and warned to forward all incoming calls on Wilson's line from outside the hospital to the security office where the police and Luegers were tracing every call. Had someone tried to contact House in his office and, being unable to find him there or anywhere else, thought to try Wilson's office for him? Was it Foreman or one of his team members?

He rose from the sofa, wincing at the shot of pain from his leg, the muscles having stiffened up as he slept, and limped to the desk sans cane to answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"Tick-tock, Dr. House," an unfamiliar voice said. "We don't like snitches. Having Mendelsohn thrown in the hole for being in contact with you means you ratted to the police. You know what happens to rats, don't you House?"

House's heart skipped a beat and his mouth became instantly dry. He hadn't expected the prison authorities to act so quickly in punishing Mendelsohn by sending him to solitary confinement before Wilson was freed. Someone screwed up big time, and now Wilson was going to pay. Damn those fat-headed mini-dictators!

"I had nothing to do with that," House answered honestly, his mind searching for the right words to say. He wished he had a recorder with him; somehow this member of Mendelsohn's gang had managed to get past the security block in place so it was likely this wasn't being recorded and traced by Luegers' men. "I haven't contacted the police."

"For a lying piece of shit, you do have balls to fake sounding earnest about it," the voice told him with a snort. "In punishment for squealing, every hour on the hour that it takes you to diagnose Bobby, your friend will suffer a form of torture which you'll get to hear, starting now."

"No!" House nearly shouted, breaking out in a cold sweat of terror. "It takes time to come up with a diagnosis—despite what you see on TV, lab tests take time to complete and can't be done in a matter of forty minutes! Damn it! Stop!"

Over the phone he heard muffled voices and then the voice said to someone on his side of the connection, "Do it."

House was met with the sound of Wilson begging for mercy before he began to scream in agony. House's stomach twisted itself into a knot and his heart was beating so quickly now he was close to v-fib.

"Stop it, goddamnit!" House screamed into the phone. "Leave him alone! He hasn't done a goddamned thing to you! _Wilson!_"

"I love the sound of a squealing Jew!" the voice said, cackling psychotically. "One hour, Doc. No diagnosis in an hour, Wilson gets even worse."

"You fucking coward!" House shouted into the mouthpiece. "I'll make certain you suffer a hundred times more than he—!" Before he could finish his threat there was a click as the voice hung up on him. House shook from head to toe, his mind freezing with terror. He picked up the desk phone and threw it across the room in rage, pulling it out of the wall. It crashed against the opposing wall, narrowly missing the glass balcony door, smashing into pieces that dropped to the floor. In a blind rage he found his cane and stormed out of Wilson's office, heading for Security.

When he got there he blew off the receptionist and headed straight for Luegers' office, moving faster than most people who didn't have a gimp leg. Before he could get there he passed the A/V room and saw Foreman and Luegers inside with the A/V tech. He stopped and charged into the small room.

"I just got a call from one of Mendelsohn's men in Wilson's office," House barked, his body still vibrating from anger and fear.

Luegers mouth curled upwards. "We know. We expected that whoever his man is on the inside keeping an eye on us would tell them where to find you at any given moment and someone would _try_ to bypass our block to get a hold of you with further threats or instructions. We recorded the entire conversation; we know so far that it was made by cellphone and the police are, at this moment, working on triangulating the signal to find where it came from."

"So you heard what they were doing to Wilson?"

Foreman nodded soberly, his brow creased from a frown. "Hopefully this works and we can free Wilson before any more harm comes to him."

"I still think we should evacuate the building and the police should be brought into the hospital as long as we have a gun-toting psychopath in the building," Luegers insisted.

"Didn't you hear what they just did to Wilson?" House spat, incredulous. "We bring in the cops and they won't stop at mere torture!"

"Everybody is doing the best they can," Foreman soothed.

House knew that but it didn't make him feel any better at all; in fact, it only added to his sense of helplessness. "Well everybody's best isn't good enough, is it? Otherwise Wilson would be home by now."

House marched out of the A/V room, uncertain where he was going next. All he knew was that he had to _move_. It made him feel like he was doing something to bring them closer to getting Wilson back than he was. It also helped him to think, and despite his anxiety and the growing ache in his leg, he forced himself to direct his thoughts back to diagnosing Bruce—or was that Billy? Bobby? Yes, yes, it was Bobby.

He was just about at the exit when Foreman called to him. "House, hold up."

Growling almost inaudibly, House halted and turned to face him. "What?"

Foreman caught up to him. "Why were you in Wilson's office?"

Rolling his eyes at the inanity of the question, House replied. "I needed to lie down, rest my leg. In case you forgot, I'm sick, too. His sofa is more comfortable than mine—more private, too."

Foreman nodded in acknowledgement but House could tell that he wasn't completely convinced that was the whole answer. He stepped aside to allow House to pass. With a heavy sigh, House headed for the elevator.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes**

**Chapter Four**

He was playing the piano in the Recreational Therapy lounge when his pager went off. House startled slightly, hitting a sour note before ceasing his playing altogether. Playing calmed him like nothing else (that wasn't intoxicating) could. After listening to his best friend suffering at the hands of his abductors, House had needed to do something to calm himself down enough to be able to focus.

House pulled his pager off of his belt and looked at the display. Immediately he pushed the bench back from the piano and rose to his feet. He grabbed his cane and hurried in the direction of Bobby's room. The boy was seizing. He had to wait for the elevator which just had to be busy at that moment when he needed to rush. Climbing the stairs three stories with his leg hurting like hell was _not_ an option. The urge to gulp down extra Vicodin was incredibly strong, but he didn't want to return to the mess he was before he went to prison. Kicking Vicodin altogether would probably never happen again, but that didn't mean he had to go insane on it, either.

When House arrived at the room the door was open and two nurses emerged, followed by Chase and Park.

"What happened?" House demanded.

"Grand mal seizure," Chase announced. "Paul says Bobby and he were talking when 'out of nowhere' the seizure hit. We gave him Carbomazepine and he's resting now. New symptom."

House nodded, adding 'tonic-clonic seizures' at the bottom of the list on his mental white board. While severe macro and micro-nutrient deficiencies could result in neurological symptoms, this opened up other possibilities as well.

"What about the lab results?" he demanded, looking from one employee to another for an answer.

"The lab manager doesn't recognize the priority you used to command for access to the equipment under the last administration," Park answered, sounding like she was quoting the manager almost verbatim and folding her arms in front of her. "He had to get Foreman involved before Suter would allow Taub access to 'his' lab. Adams is assisting him and they should be finishing up soon, though." She tilted her head slightly, appraising him. "You look terrible."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," House snarked in response before being hit with a coughing fit. His chest was tight. _Great,_ House mused dourly, _chest congestion, too; just what I needed_. He was pissed at the delay caused by some power-hungry freak in the laboratory. Suter was going to have to be taught a lesson (after Wilson was freed, of course).

"Get down there, both of you, and give them a hand. When you're done, meet me in the conference room," House told them. He watched them leave; once they were out of sight he limped into Bobby's room. He usually didn't like making personal contact with his patients—especially the children—but sometimes it was necessary. He was surprised when he found Bobby apparently all alone in the room; he was sleeping thanks to the anticonvulsant drug he'd been given. When the sound of a toilet flushing came from the bathroom he realized where Paul had gone.

The neo-Nazi emerged and immediately started, reaching for his gun when he saw someone standing in the doorway. Paul slowly relaxed when he saw that it was House.

"He's having seizures now," Paul announced. "What is it, epilepsy or something?"

"I don't know, yet," House responded, having to force himself to speak halfway civilly to him. His fists were balled up so tightly that his fingernails were literally cutting into the flesh of the heels of his hands. What he _really_ wanted to do was knock Paul out with a cane to his head then beat him to death with his bare hands for what his compatriots were doing to Wilson. The intensity of the hatred House felt for him at that moment shocked even him.

"Well you better hurry up and figure it out," Paul threatened coldly, keeping his voice down so as not to wake his charge. "We wouldn't want any permanent harm done to Wilson, would we?"

House tasted bile and he had to keep his eyes trained on Bobby to keep himself from giving in to his rage.

"Seizures can be very serious," House commented, his voice soft and carrying an edge of danger. "People die from them all the time. When a person is seizing they often stop breathing, sometimes for extended periods of time. That's why immediate medical intervention is necessary. Usually an anticonvulsant drug like the one Bobby was given is administered; once the victim stops seizing, he or she begins to breathe again. In cases like that, the drug is what makes the difference between life and death. However, if too much of the drug is administered, an overdose can result causing serious harm or perhaps even death. Mistakes like that are rare, but they do happen…particularly when the caregivers are under a great deal of stress. Hearing my best friend being tortured causes me a _great_ deal of stress." House now looked unwaveringly at Paul, his blue eyes resembling ice. "It would be a shame if stress should cause me to err and prescribe a wrong drug or dosage and Bobby should die as a result of it. We wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

"Is that a threat?" Paul demanded, his hand moving toward his gun again. "Anything happens to Bobby and not only will _you_ get a bullet between the eyes but so will Wilson."

House smirked angrily. "You and I both know that if anything happens to Bobby, you'll be joining us in the morgue soon after."

House turned, half-expecting a bullet in the back at any moment, and left the room. He sighed silently when he wasn't wounded on his way out. Mendelsohn had Wilson, true, but House had Bobby. There were many ways to sneak a poison or an overdose or provide an intentionally wrong treatment without Paul catching on until it was too late. House hoped the thug was smart enough to realize that and communicate that fact back to his friends.

**~h/w~**

House headed for the conference room when he saw his team walk past his office heading in that direction. He stood in front of the white board and waited for them to sit down.

"So, new symptom," House said as he wrote **tonic-clonic seizures **at the bottom of the list.

"We have brain involvement," Adams said, stating the obvious. "Also, his temperature is up, currently at 103.1 degrees. Malnutrition could still explain the seizures but that high of a fever? I don't think so."

"Could be unrelated," Park commented but even as the words left her mouth she frowned at them and shook her head. "It's not likely, but it could be anything from a bad case of the flu masked by whatever else he has, or even bacterial meningitis. If Bobby's immune system is shot due to poor nutrition then he could be susceptible, explaining both the seizure and the fever."

"Too convenient for that to occur right as we're trying to determine what is causing his nutritional deficiencies," House murmured, tapping his chin with the capped marker. "Anything relevant in the history you took?"

"Well, Paul knows very little about Bobby's or his family's medical history," Adams replied, "but Bobby was awake and lucid when I took the history so he was able to answer some of my questions; he's a very smart little boy."

"Yeah, yeah," House said impatiently, "get on with it."

Adams opened her file folder and glanced occasionally at her notes. "Bobby has been sick for two years now. He said that he first knew he was sick when his stomach kept cramping and growling. I took a look at his abdomen and listened for sounds. He has significant periodic peristalsis with borborygmi. He doesn't remember his mother having 'tummy' troubles, nor his father or grandparents on either side; he's an only child. His height and weight for his age are both under where they should be and I noticed that both of his femurs appear to be slightly bowed; X-rays would be able to confirm and determine how much. Both Paul and Bobby say he's become increasingly unstable in his gait and due to muscle weakness he's been confined to his wheelchair for the past eight months. Apparently he eats like a horse when he isn't nauseous or suffering a great deal of pain, and his diet is varied. Bobby loves broccoli, carrots, brussel sprouts, potatoes, oranges, apples, red grapes, berries, pineapple, and chocolate milk. He eats both red and white meats equally and regularly. He also has a sweet tooth, but what kid doesn't? Get this—he doesn't like bread and doesn't eat it and only likes oatmeal as far as cereals go. He doesn't like pasta either. It doesn't make him sick, he just doesn't care for it."

"With that kind of diet, we can rule out neglect or undernourished," Chase commented quietly. "Any Celiac testing would likely be skewed by the fact that he barely touches anything with gluten in it. What I don't get is why the kid's mother isn't here with him, especially since his father is in prison."

"I was getting to that," Adams said almost prissily. "His mother died shortly after giving birth to Bobby. She and baby went home and everything seemed to be fine but two days later she spontaneously hemorrhaged and bled to death before the ambulance reached the hospital. According to Paul there were 'complications' during labor and the coroner's report indicated that was the cause of the hemorrhage. Bobby's aunt, his father's sister, has been caring for Bobby in his father's absence. One more thing—Bobby has occasional complaints of joint swelling and pain which points to autoimmune, which is indicative again of Celiac, but also Whipple's and lupus."

"It's not lupus. Taub, lab results," House said, turning his attention to him after writing on the board: **rising fever—infection? meningitis? Long bone bowing; abnormal gait; joint swelling, pain—RA? Autoimmune?**

"The CBC showed signs of anemia and infection," Taub answered, handing out copies of the lab results to House and each team member. "No big surprises there. His RBC is 3.1 x 10-12/L, hematocrit is 23, platelet count is 140000, all what you would expect to see with moderate to severe malabsorption. His white blood cell count is elevated, indicating infection or autoimmune—probably juvenile RA and possibly Celiac. Nothing else stands out as extraordinary. Liver and kidney enzymes are on the high side of normal, his serum carotene, and serum albumin levels are slightly below normal—this kid shows all the classic indicators of macro- and micronutrient deficiencies, that's nothing new. I think we're looking at either an infection or autoimmune. Abnormal gait, muscle weakness, now seizures all point neurological. It very well could be aseptic or bacterial meningitis; my bet's on Whipple's.

House concurred. It was unlikely Celiac, though that couldn't be ruled out yet. If it was an infection involving the kid's brain or central nervous system then he suspected that it would be secondary to something chronic.

"Book a room for an endoscopy; in the meantime, get a head CT; look for indications of brain or spinal infections," House told his team. "Perform an LP if necessary to confirm. Also I want a thoracic MRI and X-rays of his long bones and the joints in his shoulders, spine and extremities. Start him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic; we'll see if that has an impact. If it doesn't, discontinue and start him on prednisone instead. Also, check his stool for occult blood and steatorrhea. Let's find out if it sinks or floats. That's a perfect job for you, Chase."

The intensivist glared at House. "Gee, thanks, boss."

"Let's put a rush on this," House insisted. "Wilson's captors have announced that every hour on the hour until we reach a diagnosis they're going to employ increasingly harmful methods of torture and an incentive. They've already begun." He coughed several times after that.

"Oh my God," Adams murmured as she led the way out of the room. Park's eyes widened at the word torture and she swallowed hard before rising from her chair and following her out. Chase and Taub hung back for a few moments.

"Seriously? Torture? Just how bad _is_ it for Wilson?" Chase asked House, concerned.

"Bad," House answered quietly, briefly meeting Chase's eyes before looking away at the floor. "We need to get this solved in the next twenty minutes or else those cocksuckers are certain to call me so I can hear Wilson scream in agony again."

Chase and Taub exchanged grim looks without another word. There was no need for there to be; they knew as well as House did that there was no way they would be able to finish these new tests and analyze the results in time to prevent it from happening again. House saw consolation and sympathy as pity. All they could do was work as quickly and efficiently as possible and hope that something turned up that would help them confirm a diagnosis before torture turned to murder.

**~h/w~**

"We were able to triangulate the call to a neighborhood in Trenton," Greer announced. She stood in front of House's desk next to Foreman, who was seated in the visitor's chair Wilson frequently used. "We also managed to pull a couple of decent stills from the mall security video to use for visual identification of our suspects."

House sat in his chair with his legs propped up on his desk. Bottles of Codeine-laced cough syrup and ibuprofen stood next to them. He'd taken his scheduled dose of Vicodin a half-an-hour before so the pain in his leg was beginning to wane but he had broken out in a fever, turning his initial diagnosis of the common cold into the seasonal flu. Every time he began to cough he turned in Foreman's direction, earning him several indignant glares.

"The cellphone used was fairly old and doesn't possess GPS," the cop continued, "so we weren't able to determine an exact position but we were able to locate a section of Trenton a quarter mile in radius. Trenton police have been notified and are going door to door as we speak. We're very close now, Dr. House. We'll find Dr. Wilson."

This was good news, but House refused to get his hopes up too high; he hated to be disappointed. The captors could figure out what was going on and move Wilson to a different location before the police reached where he was being kept now. Worse, they could decide that they didn't want any baggage with them in their escape and kill Wilson, leaving his dead body to be found by the police.

"Are they going to find him in the next ten minutes?" House demanded. "Because in ten minutes I'm going to receive call so I can listen as they put Wilson through another round of torture. There's no telling what they're doing to him to elicit those bloodcurdling screams." His voice threatening to break, House stopped speaking and swallowed hard. He gripped his armrests with white-knuckled hands in his effort to control himself.

Neither Greer nor Foreman responded to that. The cop sighed and left the office. Foreman remained where he was and said, "I heard about the seizure. Are there any other new symptoms?"

"Elevated white blood cell count and high-grade fever," House replied, grateful to be distracted even if it was only for a minute. "We're testing for possible brain or CNS infection secondary to whatever else he has. Adams says she detected a slight bowing of his femurs under physical examination; he's being x-rayed to confirm. Plus, there's joint swelling and pain indicative of juvenile RA, so autoimmune is on the table. If you want to help, push through our booking for an endoscopy; I need tissue samples from his small intestine."

"Absolutely." Foreman shook his head, smiling slightly. "A cute little boy with RA—Cameron would be sitting vigil with Bobby fawning over him if she were still here."

Despite how rotten he felt physically and emotionally, House couldn't resist the upward tug on the corners of his mouth—but a second later it was gone. Wilson was another one with a soft spot for sick kids.

"Autoimmune plus neurological plus gastrointestinal malabsorption plus osteo," Foreman murmured, pensive. His words echoed in House's head and blended with the labs and the symptoms individually as he desperately searched for a connection.

He slowly lowered his legs off the desk , took his cane in hand and went to the DDx room, walking up to the white board, looking for something to jump out at him, something he was missing, something he should have done or be doing that he isn't. Foreman came to stand next to him, silently doing his own mental search.

Both of them jumped when House's office phone rang. They looked at each other briefly and then at the clock on the wall. House hurried to his desk, his hand shaking slightly as he picked up the receiver, pressed speakerphone and hung up the receiver again.

"We're close to a diagnosis," he said, loathing the imploring sound of his own voice. "Just a couple more hours and—"

"House, it's me." It was Wilson, his voice quavering. "Please tell me you have a diagnosis!"

"Wilson, what did they do to you? We're close, really close—"

"Close isn't good enough for them," was his best friend's bleak reply. House could tell just listening to him that Wilson was in a great deal of pain and his heart ached even as terror threatened to paralyze him. Wilson's voice lowered to a whisper. "_Please_, just tell them _anything_. They won't know any better. _Please_!"

House heard some knocking and scratching sounds and then the Voice came onto the line. "The clock is still ticking, House. I don't want to hear any excuses or lies. Don't forget, we're watching you. Guess your friend gets round two. Cancer doctors don't really need their fingers, do they?"

"Jesus Christ, I-I know what the kid's got—!" House screamed but even as he did he knew they wouldn't listen and didn't care. They had Wilson and House wasn't there to be able to follow through with any threats he may make.

"_Oh my God! No, please, no_!" House heard Wilson cry out before there was the sound like the motor of a small tool starting. A split second later Wilson was screaming again and House could have sworn his friend mentioned his thumb. This was followed by the sound of sobs and pathetic, agonized groans.

The voice returned to the phone. "Two more fingers next time we have to call."

House heard a loud, repetitive crashing sound followed by what sounded like wood splintering and breaking. What the hell was going on? This was followed by more breaking and splintering, a cacophony of panicked voices and shouts, the sound of multiple boots pounding on the floor and another cry from Wilson.

"Wilson!" House shouted, terrified and not even attempting to hide the fact. He couldn't lose Wilson, he just couldn't. His friendship with him was the only thing that had kept House going during his time in prison and now while he was under house arrest. House collapsed into his desk chair, cold sweat poring off of him. Then other voices shouting over the line could be heard.

"Trenton police! Drop your weapons and get on the floor! Drop them!" This was followed by the sound of gunshots, cries and groans. A voice that House was certain was Wilson's cried out and his heart froze upon hearing it. Had Wilson been shot? Was he dead or dying in a pool of his own blood? Couldn't those fucking cops have done this better than how it sounded?

There was a crackle and a pop and then nothing. The connection had been severed from the other end. House closed his eyes for just a moment. His body was shaking violently and he barely grabbed the wastebasket beside him and brought it up to his face in time to catch his vomit as he heaved violently into it. He hated that he was helpless, that he might have lost his friend, the man he loved more than anyone he had ever loved before in his life. He hated that Foreman was present to watch his breakdown now, to see him vulnerable and weak.

He looked up suddenly, puke dripping off of his scruffy chin, when Greer ran into his office, panting lightly. "They found him! There was some gun play and they had hurt him but Dr. Wilson is alive and is being transported to St. Francis Medical Center."

Foreman turned to House. "I'll have him transferred here a.s.a.p." he assured him.

"And what about Paul?" House demanded, setting his wastebasket down and reaching into a drawer in his desk for a small box of Kleenex. He wiped his mouth and face off. Their worries weren't over; there was no telling how badly Wilson had been hurt and they still had a murderous sociopath in the hospital with a loaded gun; the moment he caught wind of what had happened Paul could decide to seek revenge on behalf of his gang.

"He's in custody," she told him, smiling in victory. "I had my gun drawn before he could even reach for his. I told you we'd find your friend." Greer didn't wait for a response from him before she turned around and left.

House felt Foreman staring at him with a relieved smile on his face. House met his gaze briefly, repressing his own smile. "What are you staring at? Go get Wilson transferred already."

Foreman nodded knowingly and made to leave.

Before he reached the door House said to him. "Nobody finds out what just happened here."

"What?" Foreman asked drolly. "That you care deeply about someone other than yourself and you're actually human after all? I wouldn't dream of it. You _are_ going to finish diagnosing Bobby, aren't you?"

"I suppose," House replied simply, "with ten hours off of clinic duty as an incentive."

Foreman smirked and shook his head. "Two."

"Four," House bartered and coughed, "and I no longer take the patients with screaming kids or crotch rot."

"Six," Foreman informed him, "and you'll take anybody. I'm not going any lower."

House sighed dramatically and nodded. "Fine."

Opening the door, Foreman had one foot out when House informed him, "Cuddy wouldn't have gone lower than seven."

Looking over his shoulder Foreman retorted, "Well then, aren't you lucky I'm not Cuddy?" He left, heading quickly in the direction of the elevators.

House would have smiled at that if he wasn't so worried about Wilson, wondering what all he had suffered before the cops liberated him. Guilt nagged at him more than before. Wilson had suffered at the hands of those motherfuckers at the command of Mendelsohn, who only knew Wilson existed because of his association with House in prison. Ultimately, everything that had happened to Wilson, House figured, was his fault.

Moving over to his Eames chair, House sat down, elevating his feet onto the footstool. How could he face Wilson now, knowing that Wilson was injured and had suffered terribly because him? How could he ever make it up to Wilson? First, House was responsible for Wilson's broken wrist and heart, now he was guilty of what? What kind of torture had been inflicted on him? Had his thumb really been cut off? The broken wrist had been an accident and Wilson had forgiven him, but…

House sat up in his chair, his eyes widening. Thumb…wrist… He literally hit himself upside the head for his own stupidity. Why hadn't he thought of it before this? Knowing what they currently did, there was a quick way of determining whether Bobby had Celiac or Whipple's without having to wait for test results that weren't any more definitive. He got to his feet and paged Taub to find out where Bobby currently was, whether he was in his room or in Radiology. Learning that Bobby was being prepped in his room to head to radiology, House told his employee to keep Bobby there, that he was on his way there.

House made good time getting to Bobby's room for a man with a disability. He half expected to find an upset, scared little child upon arrival, after having witnessed a police takedown of his protector, but instead he found the boy calm, even sleepy, as if watching people pull guns on his guardians happened every day. Perhaps it did.

Taub and Park were with him, readying him to go down to Radiology. His orders had been for Taub to stay away from Bobby and Park to be accompanied by either Chase or him, but with Paul no longer around, it didn't matter.

House walked into the room and headed for a pair of supply carts along one wall; two green eyes tracked him.

"Bobby, my name is Dr. House," he told the boy as he through drawers for something.

The boy nodded. "I know. I saw you in the lobby. Is Paul going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," House told him, rummaging until he found what he was looking for. "He'll have everything he needs: three squares and a cot on the State's tab and plenty of time to play cards with your father." He pulled out a sphygmomanometer then approached Bobby; Taub and Park watched him curiously, remaining silent.

House forced himself to treat Bobby as kindly as he was able to treat anyone; it wasn't his fault his father was a bigoted, murderous sonofabitch. "I have a test I want to perform on you," House explained almost gently. "It will help me determine which of two diseases you likely have. It won't hurt, not like a needle stick does, though I will be squeezing your arm very tightly with this blood pressure cuff and that might feel uncomfortable; it won't last long."

"What's the test called?" Bobby asked innocently.

"I'm looking for what's called the Trousseau sign," House told him as he wrapped the cuff around Bobby's skinny little arm.

"Of course," Taub murmured, rolling his eyes as if to say 'why didn't I think of that?' The presence of the sign wasn't definitive but it would allow them to rule out one or the other of Celiac and Whipple's.

House continued as if he hadn't heard Taub. "One of the diseases, called Whipple's disease, causes a people to have a low level of Calcium in their body, lower than what it usually would be in someone who had another illness called Celiac disease. By putting this cuff on your arm and pumping air into it so that it tightly squeezes your arm we can determine whether or not you have enough Calcium in your body. If you do, then nothing should happen." House began to pump the ball to inflate the cuff. "If you don't, then the muscles in your wrist, hand, fingers and thumb should show hyper-excitability by contracting, thus indicating hypocalcemia, or low Calcium. If that happens then it's a pretty good sign that you have Whipple's disease. From there we can run more specific and expensive tests to confirm the diagnosis without my boss freaking out about the 'unnecessary'cost." House made quotation signs with his free hand.

House stopped talking when the boy's wrist began to bend seemingly of its own volition, the thumb flexing inward toward his palm and the other fingers straightening then bending in toward the palm at the metacarpal joints. House looked up at Taub and Park as he opened the valve on the cuff and allowed the air to drain out of it.

"Perform the biopsy as planned and perform a Periodic-Schiff stain. Screen his blood for IgM antibodies," House told them. "Then when those test positive, collect a sample and ship it to the Mayo for a PCR for _T. whippellii _for final confirmation."

"Does this mean I have that disease that starts with a w?" Bobby asked House.

"Yup," House answered without feeling. "Congratulations—a life sentence with no parole, just like good ol' Dad. At least in your case we can manage your symptoms and keep you relatively comfortable." He limped out of the room without a glance back. That would be the last time he ever saw or heard from Bobby Mendelsohn—and he hoped, his father—again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes**

**Chapter Five**

Wilson's thumb hadn't been completely severed; the arrival of the Trenton police prevented that; however, enough damage had been done to leave question as to whether or not it would ever function properly again, or even if the damage was reparable. Wilson underwent surgery on his thumb at St. Francis Medical Center and the procedure went well but it would be a matter of time before it could be determined how much functionality would be left in the digit. There had been a fair amount of feeling and good circulation restored, both very promising signs. Cosmetically, at least, his hand would look close to normal. It was a good thing, House had grimly mused, that Wilson wasn't a surgeon. After Wilson had come out of the recovery room he was transferred by ambulance back to PPTH to heal.

Once Wilson was in a private room, sleeping off the morphine he was receiving for the pain, and House was alone with him, the older man gently pulled open Wilson's hospital gown as far as his upper abdomen. He'd been warned about what he would find, and Taub had assured him that a good cosmetic surgeon could erase the physical remains of this ugly reminder of Wilson went through at the hands of Mendelsohn's people. House gently removed the light-fitting dressings covering it.

On Wilson's chest, branded into his skin with something white hot, was a Star of David. It was decided that this had been the first torturous thing done to Wilson, followed an hour later by the sawing of his thumb with a hand-held reciprocating saw. The sight of it made House sick, as did the lingering odor of burnt hair and flesh. Tears burned in House's eyes and before he could stop it, a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. He was responsible for this, he knew. Certainly he hadn't held the burning object against Wilson's chest with his own hands, but if Wilson had never known House, this never would have happened.

Wilson wasn't safe as long as he remained in his life. That's why House needed to rectify that. It would be hard to push Wilson away—heart-wrenching in fact—but it had to be done before something like this, or worse, ever happened again. House recovered the burn and closed Wilson's gown all without waking him. He reached for Wilson's unbandaged hand, brushed his fingers lovingly over Wilson's for but a moment, and then left the room with no intention of returning.

As soon as House had completed his sentence in full and he was free from house arrest, he would resign at PPTH, and if possible, return to Fiji to study theoretical physics just as he had considered doing while in prison. Wilson—and everybody else associated with him—would be much better off.

**~h/w~**

Two days had passed since House last saw Wilson asleep in his hospital bed. He hadn't been back to see him, unable to do so for fear he would selfishly change his mind about setting Wilson free where he would be safe and in the long-run, happier. In fact, he'd called in sick with the flu since then, but he was already recovering from it and really it was because he was unable to face his fellows, Foreman, and especially Wilson. He didn't want to face their accusing looks and the whispers behind his back. Ordinarily he didn't give a damn about what others thought of him, but this?—this was different. Because of him his best friend almost died; first House had terrorized and driven Cuddy away, and now this.

House sat on his sofa with the TV on and a partial bottle of Makers Mark in one hand, resting on his abdomen. He really had no idea what was going on with the program on the tube and didn't care; the TV was on for background noise and out of habit more than anything. He was half-drunk and determined to complete the other half as quickly as possible.

When his phone rang, he groaned, anticipating it to be Foreman; the dean had been trying to get a hold of him all day but House had been screening his calls and ignoring those that had been from anyone he knew. He leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes, waiting for his answering machine to pick up for him.

"Hi, this is House," his recorded voice declared when the machine answered on the fifth ring. He sounded as if he was panting. "You're interrupting one of the best blow jobs of my life so you had better be dying or you can kiss my ass after the beep."

House smiled; he rather liked that particular announcement, which he had recorded after Foreman's fourth call that day.

The machine beeped.

"House, it's me. Pick up the phone."

It was Wilson. He sounded tired, and the strain in his voice indicated that he was in pain. House remained on the sofa, frozen in place. He wanted so badly to talk to Wilson, but knew it wouldn't be a good idea for either one of them.

"Foreman found the note you left on his desk," Wilson continued after a beat. "Fiji? Really? Quit being an idiot and pick up. None of this was your fault. I don't blame you and neither does anyone else. I'm not better off without you. In fact, nothing could be farther from the truth—"

Wilson's thirty seconds were up and the answering machine cut him off. House was sitting up now, debating whether or not to disconnect the phone altogether when it rang again. It was Wilson, of course.

"Look, the nurse is threatening to take my cellphone away and throw it in the toilet if you don't pick-up…I…I really need to hear your voice. I'm bored out of my skull and I really could use you to distract me from the pain with one of your random philosophical rants about something the rest of humanity considers trivial. I—"

House was at the phone and he picked up the receiver; the answering machine stopped recording automatically.

"You're a moron," House told him after swallowing hard at the lump in his throat. "And you call _me_ self-destructive."

"Hi," Wilson responded simply, and House could imagine his rich, brown puppy-dog eyes looking into his cerulean blue ones, a crooked smile tugging on his perfectly formed lips.

Sighing audibly, House felt his entire body relax at the sound of Wilson's voice. The man had an effect on him that was akin to Valium sometimes.

"You're a goddamned fool," House told him, hiding his rebelling softer emotions behind something safer and more familiar: anger. "How many times do you have to suffer because of me before you give me the finger and leave me for good?"

"I don't know," Wilson replied. "I haven't reached that point yet. Guess I never will. Besides, I could turn the tables and ask you the exact same question. What's your excuse? Because if you actually believe that you can just fly off to Fiji and never have another thing to do with me again you're kidding yourself. Who would pay for your lunches? Do Fijians even know how to make a decent Reuben?"

"Hardy-har-har," House sarcastically returned, swallowing again.

"Look, you're just as addicted to me as you are to Vicodin," Wilson continued, undeterred. "I wish that you were _more_ addicted to me than Vicodin, but I'll take what I can get."

"You don't know me," House retorted, trying to sound snarky but ending up sounding more resigned than anything else.

"Of course, I do," Wilson replied with certainty. When House didn't offer an argument to that, he sighed. "Foreman told me that you read the note I had on my computer when I was abducted."

"I did." House answered quietly. "I guess you're addicted to me, too. I can't believe you're stupid enough to consider offing yourself."

"About that." Wilson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There was a point during your stint in prison where I _was_ suicidal. I wrote that letter back then and never deleted it. I was thinking about all the crap our friendship had had to endure and feeling maudlin today. I was re-reading the note before finally getting rid of it when I was kidnapped. I'm no longer suicidal, House. You're back, and we're trying to fix this dysfunctional thing we call a friendship, and I don't want to die before I find out if we actually succeed."

Despite being incredibly relieved to hear that, House knew there was still the matter of the 'gay' thing to deal with. He swallowed hard. As much as he dreaded trespassing into this territory he couldn't help but venture on.

"Did you actually think I'd freak out and disown you just because you're gay?" House asked him, shaking his head despite the fact that Wilson couldn't see it.

"I guess I wasn't certain _what_ you'd do," Wilson replied, carefully choosing his words; House imagined him rubbing the back of his neck and appearing sheepish.

"You're an imbecile," House declared. "There's no way I'd let something like that wreck our friendship. There's too much potential for mocking you to do that."

"Ah, of course," Wilson agreed drily. "Stupid of me to think it might have had to do with the possibility that that you weren't as big a jerk as everybody thinks you are."

"I can forgive you; we all make mistakes, though some of us less than others."

"That's big of you, House."

There was an awkward silence between them for a few moments, until House couldn't stand it anymore and said, "I'm not gay, Wilson."

There was another brief pause. "Yeah," Wilson replied. "I know and it's okay. Nothing has to change between us, House."

"You're wrong," House insisted before sighing heavily. He licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue.

"But House—!"

House cut him off. "I'm not exactly straight either, Wilson. I guess you could say I'm slightly curved—not Clinton-style curved, mind you—but I think you get my drift."

"I'm not sure," Wilson answered, a familiar teasing lilt to his voice. "I think I need you to spell it out to me as if I were a three year old."

"Manipulative bitch," House grumbled, but a smile was now plastered to his face. In a sickeningly pedantic voice he continued, "Okay, little Jimmy. You see, I like to play with little girls a lot, but I also like to play with certain little boys sometimes, too, though I haven't played with one for a while now. I think you're a special little boy that I like the 'bestest' of all the little girls and boys I've ever played with before; I'd like to play with you over and over again, only with you, forever and ever, if you're up for it."

He could hear Wilson chuckling quietly. "House, that was, on a multitude of levels, one of the most disturbing speeches I've ever heard in my life."

Laughing now, too, House took a few seconds to sober. "Wilson, let's make a deal: I won't run away to Fiji, and you won't try to off yourself."

"I think I can agree to that," his best friend concurred. "Look, the nurse is about to throttle me with trach tubing if I don't get off the phone."

"Ooo, sounds kinky. Just tell Nurse Ratchet to suck your di—no, wait, strike that," House advised. "Nobody's mouth but mine is allowed to do that to you ever again."

"I never thought in a million years I'd hear you say that to me without being pissed out of your mind first," Wilson said with what sounded like a contented sigh, "but I'm not complaining. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"In time for lunch—you're buying."

"But of course," Wilson agreed. "House...I really do love you."

"Are you certain you're not a chick? I mean, have you actually had tests to confirm that you have a Y-chromosome?" House deflected, both thrilled and flustered by the proclamation. He was actually ready to say those three words back, which was a first for him, but he wanted to do so in person, not over the telephone, and preferably right before shoving his tongue down Wilson's throat.

House imagined Wilson rolling his eyes and sighing silently, hopefully with the hint of a fond smile.

"Goodnight, House."

"Goodnight, Wilson."

**~h/w~**

House sat on the sofa in the living room with a mover's box resting on the coffee table in front of him. He was unpacking his record collection out of one of the dozen or so boxes that had been moved from his apartment to the loft with the help of his team (not that they had had any choice in the matter). The wood in the fireplace crackled as it burned and delicious smells coming from the kitchen were relaxing and comforting.

Foreman had managed to arrange with House's caseworker and the New Jersey Department of Corrections to have his place of residence changed from Baker Street to Wilson's place. He had never thought he'd move back into the loft with Wilson after he'd been kicked out and replaced with Sam, but a lot had changed since then to change his mind. It had been a long journey back, and many times along the way House had felt like quitting, but now that he'd returned he was glad he'd stuck out the tough times in his doomed relationship with Cuddy, his incarceration, and the period following his release from prison and reestablishing a connection with Wilson.

Mendelsohn had time added to his sentence for his activities, not that it matter that much—he wasn't getting out for a long, long time anyway.

Mendelsohn's mole in the hospital had been found out a week after Wilson had been liberated; House and he had wagered on who it was; with great reluctance House had handed over the hundred bucks when Wilson's guess proved to be the correct one. It had been the A/V guy in the Security office. As Wilson had reasoned, he had been in the perfect position to keep an eye on the everyday activities throughout the hospital and to facilitate the calls that found House no matter where he happened to be. House's guess had been Luegers, and he'd been disappointed to be found wrong.

Wilson had celebrated the victory by taking House out to dinner, wining and dining him before convincing House to move back into the loft, this time as his partner and not just his friend. He'd even presented the papers his lawyer had written up that added House's name to the deed.

He looked up when he felt a kiss being placed on the top of his head; Wilson's warm, relaxed smile greeted him. He held two flutes of Champagne, the right thumb heavily bandaged and not so much gripping as balancing the glass, and handed one to House before coming to sit right next to him on the sofa.

"Champagne?" House asked, his eyebrows arching.

"It's New Year's Eve," Wilson defended, grabbing the remote control and turning the TV on. "The occasion calls for more than beer. Besides, this is our first New Year's Eve as a couple. Now put the box away. It's almost midnight and the ball is about to drop in Times Square."

House sighed, rolling his eyes; he set his glass down and moved the box from the table to the floor. "Yes, Dear."

"House?" Wilson replied, giving him a dirty look. "Bite me."

"Okay," House replied, and reached over to undo Wilson's fly, "but I won't be able to see the ball drop if I do."

"Like you've been looking forward to it all day," Wilson told him, setting his glass onto the table and grabbing his hands. He used his hold on House to pull him into an embrace instead. Wilson kissed him tenderly, and House reciprocated, touching his tongue to Wilson's bottom lip. Gladly Wilson opened his mouth and allowed House's tongue to slide inside. His hands let go of House's and migrated to other parts of his body, namely behind House's neck and around his waist to rest just below the shoulder blades, pulling him closer. House's hands were busy, too; long pianist fingers buried themselves in thick brown hair and tugged at Wilson's shirt, trying to pull it out of his pants.

As far as House was concerned, that ball could go fuck itself; all he wanted to do was ring in the New Year making love to his best friend and lover. Of course, he would never actually use the phrase 'making love' out loud, especially around Wilson; he had an image to uphold, after all. However, it meant far more to House than simple sexual gratification.

Wilson smelled and tasted so good that House lost all appetite for the food in the kitchen, a very late supper for two that Wilson had been preparing, and hungered only for him. Once he had liberated Wilson's shirt from his pants, House slid his hand underneath, making contact with the warm flesh of his abdomen. Wilson shivered slightly, and House wonder if that was due to the coolness of his touch or desire building within him. Regardless, it was hot and caused House to harden.

He ran his hand gently over Wilson's skin, caressing the smoothness, through the soft hair on his chest and finding a nipple. He circled the areola with his fingers before giving the tit a good, hard pinch. Wilson pulled back out of the kiss momentarily, hissing, but it was more out of desire than pain. He dove back in and captured House's mouth ravenous. God, he was the greatest kisser House had ever known, hands down!

Gently House pushed Wilson back onto the couch, supporting himself over the younger man with his strong arms and upper body. Wilson made no attempt to resist him, his hands moving to grab the hem of House's T-shirt and lift it up over his head. House allowed him to do so and their mouths parted long enough to allow the shirt to pass House's face and be flung aside. Hands now caressed House's chest, his nipples, his flanks, before descending along the treasure trail from his navel to the waistband of his well-worn jeans. Impatiently Wilson yanked on the button, opening the top and then reaching for the zipper.

"Careful down there," House said, grinning against Wilson's mouth. "Mm-mmm…going….commando…today."

Wilson broke the kiss to give House a smile that was so sexy it should have been triple-X rated and wrapped in plain brown paper.

"I know," he whispered into House's ear before sucking hard on the lobe. With more care than with the button, Wilson lowered the zipper fly and pushed House's jeans down over his hips and buttocks, freeing his cock which was already hot and hard and begging for attention. He grabbed House's cock and gave it a yank, sending jolts of electric pleasure through him, up his spine to his brain and temporarily stunning him.

The obscenely lustful groan that House heard was definitely not from him. Nope. Nor was the moan he heard as Wilson ran his hand along House's length a couple of times before cupping his balls in his hand and massaging them with a feather-light grasp.

Eagerly, House didn't bother unbuttoning Wilson's shirt but tore it open, popping buttons everywhere. He expected Wilson to protest about that but his lover was too horny and busy to complain—_now_. House paused for heartbeat when his eyes found the healing burn marks blazoned on his lover's chest. Wilson was still undecided about whether to have future surgery to cover the star up or to leave it alone, turning something intended to shame him into something he wore with pride. House wasn't about to tell Wilson what he should do—the choice was entirely up to him. Secretly, though, House hoped he chose the surgery—seeing it was a reminder of what had happened, and his part in it.

His mouth found one of Wilson's tits and began to circle it with his tongue for a while before biting it lightly and sucking on it. This time the moan definitely came from Wilson, who thrust his pelvis up at House involuntarily.

"Mm, yes…" Wilson moaned again as House began to push down Wilson's pants and boxers. Wilson helped him remove his pants completely and then help House to shed his jeans.

Wilson's impressive member was fully erect and seeking friction. House lined up their hips and began to grind his cock against Wilson's, shooting more sparks to his spine and brain.

"Oh Jesus, House," Wilson said, repeating it a couple of times as their pleasure built ever closer to climax. "You're so good…"

"Ung-uh, Wilson," House uttered, panting, " …so…fucking…hot! My ass…touch my _ass_!"

Gladly obliging him, Wilson began to massage House's buttocks and pull his pelvis harder against his, to increase the friction of their cocks, now covered in pre-cum, grinding against each other. House buried his face in Wilson's shoulder, whimpering as he approached orgasm, losing control over his mouth, body, and mind.

He came first, hard, his brain overloaded with pleasure and bliss. Wilson came a few seconds later just as the ball dropped completely in Times Square and the crowd of revelers cheered and kissed. House collapsed onto Wilson and they lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time, riding out their orgasms together, sticky with cum, soaked with each other's sweat and completely debauched.

House was the first one to make an attempt to move, concerned that his weight was uncomfortable for his partner, but Wilson wrapped his arms around House and held him close.

"Best. New Year's Eve. _Ever_," House murmured against Wilson's neck, his scruff tickling him.

Wilson chuckled deeply. "And so a new tradition is born."

"Fuck, yeah," House agreed whole-heartedly. "Wilson?"

"Yeah?" Wilson responded sleepily.

"You know how I told you during our first time that I loved you?" House asked him, whispering now.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I still do."

House felt Wilson's smile rather than saw it. The arms around him squeezed tighter.

"I know. I love you, too. Happy New Year, House."

"As long as I have you," House agreed under his breath, because of how sappy it sounded, "it will be." He closed his eyes, ready to doze.

Wilson kissed his forehead. "I heard that."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
